Hearing those words, my anxiety spiked and I rushed to get out of the car. My hands fumbled with the seatbelt, and it took several tries before I was able to untangle myself. By the time I was standing on the sidewalk, Chantal already had Melody out of the car and was holding on to the little girl’s hand to keep her from running off.
“What, um—” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat, nervously tugging at a bandage still wrapped around one of themore severe skin grafts on my forearm. “What do we need to do?”
Chantal picked up Melody and expertly balanced the girl on her hip, while at the same time eyeing me up and down.
“Look, no offence, but I own a hair salon, and if I’m going to be taking you around the city, we first need to take care of… all that.”
Her hands were full of a squirming child, so she couldn’t specifically point at anything, but her gaze easily pointed for her.
My hand jumped up to my head. “My hair?”
I no longer had to wear any bandages on my head, but my hair was still a mess no matter how I brushed it. Most of my hair had burned off in the fire, and although it had grown back, the scarring on my scalp meant that the hair grew at different speeds. Some parts of my hair were long enough to reach the bottom of my ears, while some could barely count as more than a buzz cut. It hadn’t really bothered me, mostly because I avoided mirrors like they were going to steal my soul, but now I realized how unsightly I must look.
Chantal gave a nod and adjusted her hold on Melody. “I don’t normally work on men’s hair, but if people see me with you while your hair looks like that, they’re going to think I can’t do my job. So, come on, we’re fixing you up.”
Then, she turned and brought Melody into the salon behind her, and I had no choice but to follow.
Inside, the salon was bright and airy, with a slightly homey touch that made it seem like a place that would be comfortable to sit around for hours. It was just the right amount of busy, withseveral stylists and clients filling the chairs, but not so crowded that it felt cramped. Chantal had clearly put a lot of effort into the business, and it seemed lovely, but the moment I stepped through the door, every eye turned toward me and I immediately felt out of place.
The first thing I noticed, was that I was the only person there with light skin, which was uncomfortable in its own way, but that paled in comparison to the fact that I was the only man. Every stylist and every client was a woman. From braids, to curls, to afros, to short sleek haircuts that seemed simple but were probably a lot more work than they seemed, there were a myriad of styles represented around the room, and every single one of them was feminine.
“Hey, Chantal,” the girl behind the front desk called while still eyeing me. “What’chu bring us this time?”
“This is Mia,” Chantal said as she set Melody down on her feet. “He’s a… friend of Auggie’s. I’m just doing him a favor.”
Melody immediately ran to the woman behind the desk, crawling into her lap to start playing with her hair. I couldn’t blame her. I kind of wanted to do the same thing. The woman’s whole head was tied up into dozens of braids with long pink extensions. The pink braids reached all the way to her waist and swung like a rippling curtain every time she moved.
Seeing her long hair, a bitter emotion burned in my stomach. I swallowed it down and clenched my lip between my teeth to keep myself from saying anything regretful.
The woman didn’t even seem to notice Melody tugging on her hair as she continued to eye me up and down. “That ex of yours got you giving out free haircuts?”
“No, it’s not like that,” Chantal waved her off as she stepped passed the desk to check the computer screen there. “I volunteered. Hey, LeiLei, if you’re free right now, can you redo Melody’s braids? Just something simple, nothing too fancy.”
After giving me one last hard look, the woman hugged Melody tightly and stood up. “Sure thing. Come on, Mel.”
Melody was taken to one of the empty chairs, squealing as the woman tickled her along the way, and Chantal brought me to a more private station at the back of the shop. The rest of the salon continued with its business as normal, but I could still feel people sneaking glances at me every now and then. I almost suggested that we forget the whole thing, but before I could say a word, Chantal’s hand slipped into my hair to examine the mess on my head.
“We’ll need to at least even up some of these layers,” she said as she flipped the longer patches of my hair back and forth. “There’s enough here that we can probably style it in a way to hide the shorter patches until those grow out. Is there any particular style that you prefer?”
A large mirror stood in front of the salon chair where I sat. There was no avoiding my own image. I looked like a wreck. That was no surprise. Not only was my hair a disaster, but my own skin seemed to hug too close to my bones. There were dark circles under my eyes, which contrasted starkly with the bright white bandages that peeked out from the edges of my clothes. I should have just been happy that the burn scars mostly left my face untouched, but how could I be happy when not a single part of me looked like myself.
When was the last time I liked the image I saw in the mirror?
As I thought about it, a memory surfaced in my mind, superimposed over the image right before my eyes. In that moment, I saw two mirror reflections of the same person, but they were so vastly different that they might as well have been strangers.
Yes, I had been happy once, but it was a long time ago. So long ago that it didn’t seem possible anymore.
Turning away from the mirror, I shook my head.
“It doesn’t matter. Just do whatever.”
Chantal’s hand left my hair, and she turned the salon chair so I faced her. “It does matter. You should like your hair. It’s a part of you. Now, come on, what style do you like. Not to brag, but I’m pretty good. I can do just about anything.”
Anything?
That didn’t seem possible. The image I saw in the mirror wasn’t something that could be achieved with a pair of scissors and some hairspray. I wanted to just ignore Chantal’s question, but she was still looking at me, expecting an answer.
“Long,” I eventually spat out, the word much more bitter between my teeth than I intended. “I used to have long hair, but they took that from me, too. Just like my clothes. Not appropriate for boys. But it doesn’t matter. You can’t cut it longer, so just do whatever with it.”